#sg.rtf

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It's late, he thought. That was the only truly coherent thought he could manage, with every fragmented idea and swelling emotion chasing each other around like storm clouds in his mind. It was almost midnight, and he'd gone for a walk to try and clear his head, for all the good it had done him. Not far, really, just around the Twelve Temples, no more than he would normally do on a quick, early-morning patrol before everyone got up for the day.

He was lucky, really. Iptámenos Ichthýs wasn't so lucky. Toxótis Darren - Papa - had shot him down with a single arrow to the back of his neck, and Sisyphus had stood by, unable to move, unable to look away. Someone who cared had to see. Someone who cared had to know what happened, as the young man fell. He wasn't much older than Sisyphus was. They'd been joking around not a week prior, laughing between training sets, all too aware that one of the serving Gold Saints would come to check on them soon enough.

He stopped, looking up at the temple halfway set into the mountainside. No one lived here, right now. Karkínos Sage - Pope Sage - lived at the top of the mountain, just before Athena's quarters. She would reincarnate in the next decade or two, so the rumour went. May she be kinder.

"Deserters are executed, boy. That is the duty of the Toxótis Saint. He tried to desert, I could not convince him to return. And so I executed him. That is what the Pope requires, and no deserter is worth breaking the Pope's laws."

"You didn't even try to talk to him!"

"He would not have listened."

Sisyphus shook his head. He had returned alone to Spíti-Toxótis, under his father's orders. He had passed by the mess hall and gathered dinner for them both. He hadn't touched it: his stomach was still churning, hours later. Iptámenos Ichthýs hadn't even seen the arrow coming. He had been running, as fast as he could - they weren't old enough to run at the speed of sound, they hadn't been taught, and none of them could have outran his father, Ilias had learned his tracking skills somewhere and even he couldn't have snuck out without Papa knowing - and it hadn't been enough.

Their argument had continued as dusk fell, over the dinner table where Papa primarily kept his paperwork. He'd written the report of the cadet's death while arguing with Sisyphus, his tone always the same: firm and dry and cold. Bleak, now that he thought about it. Papa had looked up only once as he wrote his report, and Sisyphus had seen his own eyes reflected back at him, blue as the sea, and the exhaustion that his father always carried.

That was the worst of it, every night he had a nightmare he couldn't shake off, and he walked down the hall to find comfort in his father's presence. Papa always returned late at night, and would leave hours before Sisyphus ever needed to be up, even as he was often up at dawn for training. He'd only once ever seen his father get more than five hours of sleep without severe illness or injury, and that had been his own fault.

Sisyphus looked up at the temple pillars, biting his lip. How many people have died at your orders, instead of finding a better way? he thought. Spíti-Karkínos didn't reply. He hadn't really expected it to.

Maybe if he returned now, and apologized to his father for his disrespect, Papa would sigh in that heavy way, rise from his chair at the dinner table and let Sisyphus embrace him. Most of the time, he didn't. Most of the time, Papa's cosmos burned with lightning and light, and it wasn't always safe to approach him. But if it was safe enough to approach, and Sisyphus embraced him, he would always, always hold him back.

"The duties of a Saint are difficult and necessary, boy. Just because you might disagree do not make them any less required."

"There's- there's got to be a better way! He was scared, that was all! He didn't have you or anyone the way I do if I get scared! You didn't have to-"

"Silence, Sisyphus. Return to Spíti-Toxótis, and inform Zaphiri on your way up. He will inform the Pope, while I deal with this."

"I-I… Yes, sir."

Skorpiós Zaphiri had taken the news gravely, with an unreadable expression, before turning and walking through the entry hallway of his temple. They had walked together in silence until they had reached Spíti-Toxótis: Sisyphus had stayed, and Zaphiri had continued up the mountain. His cosmos indicated he was still up there. Maybe arguing. Zaphiri was nothing short of rude to everyone and everything, but he also rarely punished disobedience or harmless misconduct. Maybe Zaphiri would see the lack of sense in Sage's orders.

He could keep walking down to Spíti-Léon, but it wouldn't be of any use. Ilias was never home, really. If Papa overworked himself, Ilias went further, because Ilias rarely came home. When he did, it was to help Sisyphus train for a few days and resupply, before returning to wherever it was that he went. Sisyphus wasn't allowed access to the mission reports, and Papa never told him.

Ilias still had a room in Spíti-Toxótis, a room he wasn't allowed to use any more. The moment he had attained his Cloth, he had been forced to move to Spíti-Léon, and hadn't looked back. He didn't even linger to eat dinner with them, anymore. Sometimes he'd eat with Ichthýes Lugonis, if the latter felt like being social, but that was the most he did.

Sisyphus missed his brother and his calm, unwavering confidence. Papa wouldn't let Sisyphus get a word in edgewise, would never tolerate the argument for more than a few moments. Ilias would understand. Ilias wouldn't have killed that boy. Ilias wouldn't have asked Sisyphus to inform Zaphiri and then wait at home. Ilias would have asked Sisyphus to accompany Zaphiri instead, because unlike Papa, Ilias trusted Sisyphus to do things properly.

Maybe it was better that it wasn't Ilias. Sisyphus would have messed it all up, like he always did. He considered for a moment continuing down the mountain, speaking to Aspros before he retired for the night, or Rasgado. 

It wouldn't do any good. He knew that. And… if he went back, and apologized, Papa would hold him in his grief, and talk to him all evening, if he asked for it. Old mission stories, and embarrassing moments of Dídymoi Tobias', and all the other armies Papa had fought, against and alongside. He'd fall asleep leaning against his father. Nothing would be right, of course, Iptámenos Ichthýs would still be dead, but he'd be able to manage a day of training with a gaping hole where his friend had been.

A wave of anger shot through him, and he swung out, slamming his fist into the pillar. "You didn't have to make him do that!" he snarled. The tears choked in his throat. Shards fell from the marble pillar, clattering to the ground. His tears didn't fall. "You didn't have to push it that far!"

A shooting star shot through the sky. His friend, gone. There wasn't any point to his death, and now he was gone, and all the things he could have been and done were gone with him.

Sisyphus pulled his hand back. It was barely scuffed. He shook it out, and started to walk again. It had to be hard on Papa - there were some stories he wouldn't tell, some that made him trail off instead of finish. He always looked more exhausted than normal, after a battle, after every time he was forced to use his Cloth to kill. If he hadn't killed Iptámenos Ichthýs, someone else would have, and Sisyphus wasn't stupid or naive enough to think Ichthýes Lugonis would have made it so painless.

He wiped at his eyes with the side of his hand, and trudged towards home. Maybe they'd make a late-night snack, or something nice, just the two of them. Sisyphus hadn't lived in Sanctuary before his brother had attained a Cloth, he had never known what it might have been, to be the three of them.

He hated how Pope Sage was so determined to separate every family. Aspros and his brother, Sisyphus and Papa and Ilias, even Lugonis and his sibling, who Sisyphus knew nothing about. He hated how so much was asked of Papa and Ilias, even as he didn't know if he'd be able to manage that sort of responsibility, once…

No. He wouldn't succeed his father for years, at least. Aspros could claim Dídymoi the moment he was strong enough, yes, with Tobias permanently disabled. Rasgado's cloth hadn't been claimed by anyone in at least a century. Sisyphus knew his father: he wouldn't retire from duty unless Pope Sage himself ordered him to. Too much had to be done.

"Boy, what are you doing?"

"S-Sir, I… I can't sleep, I know I need to be training tomorrow, I-I guess I just…"

"What."

"I had this awful nightmare…"

"Boy, you are a Saint cadet. I will not always be here to console you. You must be stronge- oof!"

"You're… you're right. You won't be here. I-I should come to you every time, because you won't be here, and this way I won't regret not coming to you when you're dead and gone and I can't draw strength from you!"

"Urk… fine. Just this once."

The air cooled as he ascended, walking slowly back up to Spíti-Toxótis. Papa would either be finishing up his report, or he would have drawn a bath, and Sisyphus would have an hour or so for some late-night training, to blow off steam before trying to get some sleep.

Not that he expected to get much, tonight. Not after his friend's attempted desertion. It would be the talk of every cadet tomorrow, and he'd be the target for most of the questions. He'd been there. He would know.

The temple was quiet as he approached, climbing up the last few steps before stepping into the side door that lead to their actual residence. Most of the temple was storage, anyway, hallways they hadn't walked in years and didn't bother to dust, either. They didn't need that much space: the most they used was the bath, better for recovering injuries than the open sea and also easier to manage when Papa came home soaked head to toe in his own blood, and Sisyphus was given the task of cleaning Toxótis.

The door opened easily, without any of the resistance it ordinarily gave. Sisyphus closed it slowly, noting that he was burning his cosmos more than he meant to. It closed with a final click of a lock being turned: a lock he hadn't turned.

He couldn't feel Papa's emotions from the temple, and that was probably a good thing: he'd be preparing a bath, then, chasing the worries of his duties from his mind. A habit they both indulged in, that according to Papa, had been taught to him by Lugonis' predecessor once upon a time.

Sisyphus yawned, turning towards the kitchen first. They still had some cocoa from the last shipment, cocoa that Papa had carefully stashed away, knowing full well if he didn't, the twins would drink it all on him. He liked cocoa, although it was quite bitter without milk and a bit of sugar.

The kettle boiled quickly when he burned his cosmos to heat it - it was some ancient magic that allowed them wellspouts in the temples, pure and fresh without having to haul it - and he mixed in the cocoa, too weary to hum to himself as he might normally have done. Papa liked extra sugar in his, and Sisyphus preferred more milk. He made two cups, setting them both on a tray before turning toward the bath.

The tray was an excellent idea. He didn't drop it as he might have dropped at least one of the cups, Iptámenos Ichthýs' death flashing over and over in his mind. No, Sisyphus, he thought, firmly as he could. It will be fine. Papa… Papa did what he had to do.

He couldn't reason with himself very well, but Papa would be able to. Papa would be certainly more amenable to doing so, once offered cocoa. So long as he focused on the warmth in his father's cosmos once they made up…

The lamps in the bath were still lit, the door open. He couldn't feel the steam that would habitually indicate Papa's presence. He might have gotten distracted-

Sisyphus found he could run at the speed of sound, after all. He skidded to a stop, the cocoa carefully not splashing out of their cups. The bath wasn't running. He set the tray down on the nearest table, alongside a few towels. Slowly, as if in a dream, he stepped forward, more tense than he had ever been save for one overheated, frozen evening. 

Sisyphus pressed his back into Aspros' side, a white cape around his shoulders, the bow of Toxótis clutched in his hands. The bow that had murdered his friend not four hours prior. The bow that belonged to Papa, that belonged to him, now.

Later on, he would say he couldn't remember anything about what he found. For now, all he could say was that he started screaming, and he didn't know when he would stop.

.

Pope Sage was pacing in front of them. Rasgado had been tasked with calming down much of the other cadets, and keeping rumours from flying. Skorpiós Zaphiri and Ichthýes Lugonis were investigating, so they'd said. Lugonis had been the first to find him, kicking through a window and landing not ten feet from Papa. Zaphiri hadn't been far behind.

Aspros had been the one called to calm Sisyphus down enough to tell them what had happened. Even now, he didn't remember what he'd said. Only that Zaphiri had been right there, shaking his shoulders, demanding to know what he'd done.

It was a good thing that Pope Sage had sent him away. Sisyphus wasn't sure if he could ever face the man again.

He stared down at Papa's bow, the gold metal gleaming and sparkling with active, alive cosmos. Two things Papa couldn't give him anymore. The metal shone, but it wasn't mirror-bright: no, it was dusted with fingerprints and wear - Papa's fingerprints, would they be wiped away as he used it? Would he ever be able to fire this bow? Papa was supposed to tell him how he was going to manage this, and he couldn't back down, deserters deserve only death-

The click of metal boots echoed in the hallway just outside. He felt Aspros look up, and after a moment, he forced his own chin to rise. Ichthýes Lugonis walked in, cape held tight in one hand in front of him, Zaphiri some six feet behind him. His eyes were green, and cold, and marred by dark circles. His hair was messier than usual, not even in its usual ponytail. Underneath his boots and tassets were sleepwear: he'd been woken by Sisyphus' screaming, and had called his Cloth on the way.

Six feet down for any grave, Sisyphus thought, a note of hysteria cracking on the final syllable. Pope Sage stopped pacing.

"Report, Ichthýes."

Lugonis shrugged. "Rigor mortis hasn't set in. Zaph thought he'd tripped - stupid way to go - but the internal bleeding on his face doesn't support that. Lips were blue, though. I'd have to do some other tests to see for sure, but it looks a hell of a lot like what happened to the old Vulpecula. You remember the one."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sisyphus saw Aspros flinch. Yes, he remembered the Vulpecula: a Saint who'd lived to be in his seventies. He'd been just fine, old but still capable. He'd stopped mid-sentence and dropped dead. Aspros had seen it, Sisyphus hadn't.

Pope Sage stilled, studying Lugonis. "We asked the nearest coroner, when the Vulpecula died. They said a blood vessel in his brain had burst."

Lugonis nodded. "I can say with some certainty that ol' Darren was most likely dead before he hit the ground. Prob'ly his bad habits we all told him to quit. Slightly less stupid, but you know, still stupid."

Sisyphus stared up at him. "He isn't- Papa wasn't stupid!"

Aspros' grip on his shoulder tightened, and he shook his chin a little. Sisyphus could see it in his eyes: don't challenge Ichthýes Lugonis. The man was lackadaisical around training and rarely punished anyone, but genuine disrespect he tended to answer with roses.

Zaphiris stepped into the room, deftly stepping around Lugonis before sticking one arm between them. "Cool it, fish. You weren't so nice to be around either when Raitis went."

The look Lugonis turned towards his colleague was dangerous enough that Sisyphus squirmed backward, into Aspros' ribs as though he were a bowerbird trying to make a home there. Aspros bore it without complaint, keeping his eyes on the pair of Gold Saints. 

Pope Sage sighed. Lugonis shook his head, and turned back toward him. "Are you sure it wasn't poison? Something slow-acting that he might not have noticed immediately?"

Lugonis raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me that, as though I wouldn't have noticed myself the moment he'd drunk poison. Don't know if you're trying to accuse me or if you just really want him to have died 'n a way that wasn't stupid as all Hades."

Sisyphus stood up. Anyone who knows archery knows that dry-firing a bow will break it. It was still in his hands as he rose, the string pulled back behind his cheekbone, an arrow notched that hadn't been there a moment prior. "How dare you-?!"

Aspros, ever the quick-thinking cadet, grabbed the bowstring, preventing him from firing. Lugonis only looked at Sisyphus, mildly, as though he were no more a threat than a mosquito. "Well, the kid didn't do it." He glanced back at Pope Sage. "I'm going to summon Ilias. He'll want to know he's training his brother now."

He turned on his heel and walked out. As he vanished behind a corner, all of the fight Sisyphus had found vanished, and he deflated into Aspros' arms. Ilias… Ilias would be here soon. Ilias would know what to do.

A vessel in his brain… all his bad habits… had Sisyphus done this? Had their argument been the final straw he couldn't take…? If he hadn't gone to clear his own head, if he hadn't taken so long with the cocoa…

"Wake up, boy."

"Huh…? S-sir?"

"Pope Sage is sending me on a mission. I should be back tomorrow night. Didn't want to vanish on you."

"I can keep up my training when you're gone?"

"Ilias is home, so he can supervise if you're having problems."

"Yes, sir. Where are you going?"

"France. That damned Spectre-infested duchy has been marshalling its forces. I'm to see why."

"Bring me back a croissant, Papa?"

"Ha. Sure."

He heard Aspros say something in an apologetic tone, something about taking Sisyphus home, something about it being a bad night to be alone, at least until Ilias got back. He didn't register any of it. All he could think of was the sound of fire, as they lit the symbol of Toxótis on the clocktower. It would burn for twelve hours, to signify the death of a Gold Saint.

He'd found his father in fire, once. He'd run for help, and he'd found Ilias and his father, investigating Spectre activity. They had been able to save him, and not much more. They'd rode from the nearest city to Sanctuary in a carriage, and Sisyphus had spent most of that ride hiding under Papa's cape, curled up against his hip as his father hummed an old lullaby. The one time he'd looked out, Ilias had been staring out the window, a look of such profound anger on his face that Papa couldn't see that Sisyphus had never forgotten, nor seen on his brother's face again.

He hated fire. Papa had been trying to help him get over it - Sisyphus' hadn't been the first burning village he'd rescued survivors from, nor the last - but it had never been a winning battle. It had been a quiet dream of his, once, to become brave enough that he could accompany his father and his brother, and give someone else the same chance at recovery that he'd had.

That wouldn't happen, now. "Come on, Sisyphus," Aspros' voice murmured in his ear. "Mama will make you something to help you sleep, and you can stay with us until Sir Ilias gets back."

He nodded. What else could he do? The bow didn't leave his hands. He wasn't going to let it out of his hands ever again. Firing this bow had maybe killed Papa, and now…

No. Better to keep the weapons that had killed his father together, in one place, so no one else could ever use either again.

I wish we'd traded places, my friend, he thought, miserably. You'll never know what it feels like, to kill in the name of Athena.

The mixed scent of his father's cosmos - marble and an ashy, morning sky - clung to his bow, and to the cape around his shoulders. Aspros was clever, Aspros had grabbed one of Papa's capes for him. Even if he slept wearing it, unable to listen to his father's heartbeat as he fell asleep, that scent too would fade. He pulled the cape tighter around his shoulders anyway, and staggered forward, trying to keep up with Aspros as his friend guided him out.

The moment Pope Sage wasn't able to see them, Aspros picked Sisyphus up in a bridal carry, expression neutral with the faintest aura of haughtiness. He always wore an expression like that, when he knew he wasn't alone. Zaphiri kept up with them, hands resting against his tassets.

All was silent for a moment, save the clanking of Zaphiri's Cloth. "... Sorry for your loss, kid," he said, quietly. "And… sorry about Lugonis. You know how he is, but… That shook him up. I don't think anyone thinks you did it. He had to be sure anyway, where Sage could see. Better he ask you than Sage does."

Sisyphus offered him a shrug. Aspros felt very far away, right now, and Zaphiri even farther. "He… he killed someone, earlier."

"Ah, yeah." Zaphiri nodded, eyebrows knitting together for a moment. "The uh, Iptámenos Ichthýs? Kid had nothing when we showed up and offered him room and board, it's probably not revenge, if that's what you're asking. Some Bronze Saint ain't likely to have allies mean enough to take out Darren without a hell of a fight."

It wasn't what Sisyphus was trying to explain to him, and Zaphiri was so far away… No, it wasn't revenge or anything like that. It couldn't have been. If it was, Sisyphus could have protected him. As it was… he pressed his face into Aspros' shoulder, and didn't look up again.

He knew why Papa was gone. He wasn't going to explain it to Zaphiri, not when Zaphiri was looking at him with pity, and not with the hatred he would if he knew what Sisyphus had done. The very same look that Sisyphus must have given his father, when the Iptámenos Ichthýs fell. Far too much a coward to face the truth, he closed his eyes against his friend's shoulder, and let Aspros carry him out into the crisp Sanctuary night. Maybe if he let the world slip even father away, he'd be able to convince himself that the person carrying him was his father, away from a burning village, where he'd be safe.

"Sir Albafica?"

The voice came from the back entrance to the Hall of Roses, its golden cosmos betraying its presence and its identity. He lifted his head slightly from where he was focusing on a patch of roses, turning. As he did, the roses nearest Miss Sasha all closed their flowers. Better not to poison her, even as he wasn't so sure that she was vulnerable to them.

Miss Sasha wasn't as new to the mountain as her expression implied. She held onto the staff of Nike like she thought someone was going to take it away from her, her blue eyes crystalline with unshed tears. There was little sadness in her cosmos, and indeed little understanding, either. Had Natalisse not told her anything? Had she somehow not noticed the battle happening just above them both?

Stéfanos Vóreios Natalisse, who should have been guarding her, did not appear. "I am here, Lady," he answered instead. "Is Stéfanos Vóreios not with you?"

Miss Sasha shook her head. "She said she can't come near the garden, but that my cosmos protects me, and I should find you."

Of course she had. Coward. They'd probably sent Natalisse because he tolerated her more than most of the Saintias, but if there was going to be an actual fight - and there was, there was - she wasn't taking her chances with his temper. Better to send Miss Sasha to him instead of having her Saintias do their job. If nothing else, it would keep Albafica out of the fight.

Some days, he really thought Kaeneus had the right idea, burning Sanctuary to the ground and leaving the lot of them to the Spectres as an easy meal. "You've found me, Lady. Did Stéfanos Vóreios not tell you anything else?"

She shook her head, and he bit back a curse of irritation, if nothing else. They wouldn't cross into the temple at all, but they'd happily prod him with thorns and give him tasks they couldn't be bothered to do themselves. "I guess- there's something going on, up in Sir Sage's chambers. It sounded like there was fighting…"

"There still is. Come along." He rose to his feet, beckoning her over his shoulder, leading deeper into the temple. "If you can't tell who's fighting and why, you shouldn't be involved."

She followed him, and the roses closed around her, opening once she passed. They didn't close for him: they didn't have to. He was their source of power, after all. He lead her to the southern pavilion, through a pair of dark hallways lit only by his Witchlight Roses. He stopped briefly to take a bottle of whiskey and a pair of glasses from a nearby rose, earning him a sparkle of extra confusion from Miss Sasha, who probably hadn't seen that particular parlour trick before.

"I don't have servants," he said, in answer to the question she didn't quite ask. "That means if I want something that exists in an icebox on the other side of my temple, either I get it myself or I make the icebox door light enough for my roses to open."

The pavilion looked down upon the other eleven temples and the grounds of Sanctuary itself: the view wasn't quite as good as it was in the library rooftop, but it was sheltered from any chance of rain or debris from the fight. It wasn't as though they were going to see anything, anyway. He set both glasses down on the table along with the bottle, kneeling at the icebox. Better to have some for the whiskey.

Miss Sasha took one of the two seats, resting her staff across her lap. Just as he poured ice into the tumblers, Aspros' cosmos at the top of the mountain shone brightly before guttering out. It was early evening, not late enough for the sky to darken. It didn't have to. They saw the shooting star anyway.

Albafica glowered, a tenseness around his eyes that looked barely different from his normal resting expression. He'd never been skilled at showing his emotions.

"Did Sir Aspros…?" Miss Sasha trailed off. He jerked his head in a nod.

"Evidently." He dropped himself into the other seat, sighing. Nothing they could do about it now: the only one who could possibly solve this now was Manigoldo, and he wouldn't. He followed Sage too tightly to be useful. Albafica reached over to the bottle of whiskey, uncorking it and filling both glasses. Miss Sasha eyed it dubiously.

"What is that?" she asked. He finished pouring, and re-corked the bottle.

"Whiskey." He didn't bother toasting, there wasn't a point to it, he just threw back the full glass. It burned as it went down. He found he didn't quite care anymore. He set the glass back down, not quite slamming it, looking her in the eye. She tensed, but did not run. "There is something rotten in this mountain, Lady, and if you are the goddess you claim to be, you will do something about it."

She blinked, looking sadder now. Her cosmos betrayed her: she didn't understand, even now. "I'm just one little girl…" she ventured, as though that would get her anywhere.

"You stopped having that excuse the moment you took up that staff," he countered, flatly. "I was only slightly more than half your age when my training began, alone. Most of us can say the same, some of us were younger. You are a goddess, this is your army. If you don't like how things are done, you need to fix it."

She looked at him, almost wounded. "I didn't ask for you all to do that."

He might have raised an eyebrow, but all he felt was tired, and it was all too clear to him what had happened. "We mostly didn't have a choice in whether or not to do it, and yet here we are."

"What's going on up there, Sir Albafica?" she asked instead. She hadn't touched her tumbler, clearly unwilling to let go of her staff. Or listen to him, for that matter. She was human enough for that.

"Sage told Sisyphus and Aspros both that the other was going to take his place. Sisyphus ceded the win. Aspros argued. Looks to me like the twins challenged Sage then and there, and he had Asmita waiting to take them both out."

The natural cosmos of the mountain flared, for just a moment. Then it dropped. Albafica blinked, uncorking the whiskey again to pour himself another glass. Well, there wouldn't be any more fighting after that, then. "I doubt he expected Kaeneus, though."

"Kaeneus?"

He sighed. "Defteros. That, in of itself, is the problem."

"Oh. I don't recognize what he just did…"

"That would have been his Álli Diástasi. Like Shion's teleportation, but his can't be followed, stopped, or tracked." He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly. "If they ask you for your opinion on who should track him down and kill him for desertion, don't volunteer me, because I'm not doing it."

"But… don't you know the Dídymoi twins better than anyone…?"

"Exactly why I'm not going to kill my friend, lass. I don't find it in myself to care what orders Sage gives about it." He tipped his tumbler back, taking another sip. There was no fight to be had now, no reason to defend Miss Sasha with any actual effort, ergo, there was no reason not to start drinking at quarter after four in the afternoon.

She looked at him a moment, her confusion writ clear on her face. "Shouldn't you be loyal to him?"

He shrugged. "I'm supposed to be loyal to you, or rather, Lady Athena. Because Sage is the man closest to her when you're not here speaking her will into reality, I'm supposed to listen to him unless you tell me not to. Seems to me then that if I want something, it's faster to ask you directly than to ask him to pass it on and hope he actually will."

"But… why wouldn't he pass it on?"

It took some mental effort not to glare at her. "I don't know for certain if you've noticed, but Sage's decisions just got my best friend murdered. This isn't so out-of-character for the man - I almost wish I was surprised, but I'm not." He bit back a shaky laugh. Ah, there was the shock. The grief would follow shortly on its heels. Hopefully after Natalisse came and got Miss Sasha, and got her out of his temple.

She flinched back at the word 'murdered', and he wished that he could sympathize. He continued. "The only reason the garrison of Gold Saints hasn't openly overthrown him is because we would need everyone to do it, and he's been smart about getting just enough loyalty on his side that we can't. Asmita and Manigoldo won't go against him. Shion wouldn't, either, and I'm not stupid enough to think Sisyphus has even thought about it."

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth a moment. "But you don't think saying that is going to be a problem," she ventured.

He scoffed. Disrespectful, yes, but honest. Let her figure out that he wasn't going to lie to her. He'd always trusted the Saints who hadn't lied to him, he assumed she would be the same. "If you tell him and he takes action, I wrap roses around every entrance and go take a nap in the aqueducts. No one gets past a Ichthýes Saint who doesn't feel like letting anyone inside." He sighed, relenting a little. She wasn't going to listen if he just yelled at her, and his volume, while still soft, had been rising. "A fool might think there is justice within these walls. I am not a fool. You're in charge here, Lady. Do his memory a favour, and fix it."

He rose from his chair. He could feel Natalisse's cosmos at the back entrance again, and so inclined his chin to the nearest open rose. "We're in the front pavilion. You can report to me here."

Whatever Natalisse said in response, he didn't bother listening. Her cosmos indicated she had started walking again, clearly both worried and incensed. She appeared in the doorway a moment later, her Silver Cloth shining over training gambeson, unshed tears in her eyes.

She knelt. "Lady Athena. Sir Albafica."

He eyed her. She hadn't brushed her hair back the way she usually had: she hadn't been on duty until there'd been a surprise pair of Dídymoi twins sneaking about in places they probably weren't allowed to be. "Report, Stéfanos Vóreios."

Natalisse raised her eyes, but didn't rise. "Dídymoi Aspros is dead," she said, as though they hadn't noticed.

"Get to the point."

She winced. "I'm- I'm trying, sir. He discovered an old technique of the Dídymoi Cloth, called the Genro Mao Ken, and cast it upon Defteros. He ordered him to kill Pope Sage. Parthénos Asmita intervened, saving the lives of both Defteros and Pope Sage. Defteros turned on Dídymoi Aspros, and now he's dead. He - Defteros - claimed the Dídymoi Cloth as his own, and used the Álli Diástasi to escape, with Dídymoi Aspros' body."

Albafica blinked. "If he has attained the cloth, then you will call him Dídymoi Defteros," he replied, sharply. "The Cloth accepted him. Unless Lady Athena" - he jerked his thumb back towards her - "says he isn't, he's now a Gold Saint, and you will address him as such."

Natalisse frowned, but didn't press the point. "Pope Sage has asked for the return of Lady Athena. When he is done discussing the current situation with her, he will be calling a Golden Round."

Hm. That would be an issue: Shion was in Jamir, Regulus was in Ireland on his first mission, and Dohko was scanning Naples for Spectre activity. All three would have to be called back, and that would take some time. He glanced to Miss Sasha, who had apparently taken the chance when Albafica and Natalisse were arguing to empty her tumbler of whiskey. Judging by her expression, she didn't care for it much.

"Remember what I told you, Lady," he said, flatly. "The Hall of Roses is open for you both." He handed both tumblers and the bottle of whiskey back to the roses, where they promptly disappeared, and walked past Natalisse, deeper into his temple. They could see themselves out.

In the meantime, he needed to head to Spíti-Dídymoi, and investigate. Something in particular spurred this on. Something caused Aspros - Lysandros, he was dead now, there was no point using his Sanctuary-name - to do this. He doubted Kaeneus - Dídymoi Kaeneus, if it weren't for the tragedy he would be overjoyed for his friend - had found himself with much of a choice, and he doubted further that Sage would actually tell them the truth of what had happened.

His answers might be found in their temple. Failing being the one stuck finding Dídymoi Kaeneus, he wasn't going to get another lead. And if Sage was quick, he'd have the temple cleaned up of any possible evidence before it sealed itself off, awaiting the return of its Saint.